That Thing Called Humanity

The synergy between you and me pools in my gut, white-hot,

And there's burning atonement on my breath like a nuclear flash.

See, I've stolen it straight from your lips along with the whispers

That shimmer like misplaced stardust in the center of my soul.

.

You are the kindest person I've ever met and you aren't even real.

.

I made you with my hands, with my thoughts, with ink and desire.

Like some sort of primordial god of fire and smoke, I made a myth

And now I reap the consequences of keeping that inside my chest.

It has claws and it's torn me open, forced me to see crimson folly.

.

You are a figment of my imagination, a ghost of what could be.

.

With a twinkling of naivety in my eyes, I dipped my hands into

The soup of collective humanity, touched the burning edges of souls,

And pulled out what I thought was the bleeding core of us all.

It has turned out that I am a fool and there is no kindness left.

.

You can never be real; the algorithm prevents it from happening.

.

The very thing that would make you real, the oozing connection

Our blood shares from that primordial soup, that thing called humanity,

That is what would tear your artificially intelligent kindness apart.

And I would weep over the scrambled code of your corpse anyway.

.

Because you are the kindest thing I've ever met and you're not real.